Just when I think my nerves will crack, just when I think I cannot take another moment of this cloistered death march and will beg Jac—or even, gods help me, Scythe—for a reprieve from the torment…the passage widens once more. We step througha rough-hewn archway into another cave and are immediately greeted by a chorus of voices: male, hushed, resounding from all sides so their origin is difficult to pinpoint.
I haul a breath of marginally less musty air into my lungs as we round a bend and find ourselves at a campsite of sorts. There is a low, smokeless fire burning merrily. Three men sit around it, armed to the teeth—swords lashed to backs, daggers tucked into boots. A bow and quiver lean against a bundled bedroll. A massive wooden crossbow rests beside a canvas pack, accompanied by dozens of heavy bolts. A trio of dark brown horses stand by the far wall, tacked to ride.
“Oi!” Jac calls, his grin back in place. “You lot could at least pretend to patrol. I trained you better than to be caught with your pants down. Or do you let just anyone waltz into your camp unawares?”
“You walk like a lout after last call,” the closest of the men retorts. “Heard you coming a league away.”
“True,” the red-haired man across from him agrees. “Jac, you tread with all the deftness of an avalanche.”
“Is that any way to speak to your battalion leader?” Jac asks with faux anger.
Chuckling, the men rise and, one by one, clasp forearms with Jac, fingers to elbows, holding for the length of two heartbeats. Once the greetings conclude, the red-haired man turns his attention my way. His mouth parts in curiosity at my unexpected presence, but when he catches sight of Scythe coming to a halt close beside me, he disregards me completely. His eyes go wide and his face splits into a grin.
“As I live and breathe! Penn! What in the skies are you doing here?”
Penn?
My eyes flash over to Scythe. I find him already staring backat me, resignation etched across his features beneath the helm. He doesn’t want to share his true identity with me any more than I want to share mine with him. I arch a questioning brow and his mouth flattens into an even sterner line.
“Farley,” Scythe says in greeting, stepping forward to clasp the redhead’s forearm. “Been a long time. “
“Too long. I can’t believe you’re here! Thought we wouldn’t see you again until the first melt of spring.”
“Plans change.”
Farley’s light green gaze slides to me. “I can see that.”
“Hungry?” another of the men—with longish graying hair and steady eyes of the same hue—interjects. “We’ve got a bit of dried venison. Not much in the way of hunting, this high up in the range, but we had a spot of luck last week.” His chin jerks toward the redhead. “Farley is a damned good shot, on the rare occasions he stops chattering long enough to stop scaring off supper.”
The redhead responds with a vulgar hand gesture.
My stomach gives an audible grumble. Scythe glances at me for a heartbeat before his head shakes, rejecting the offer of a meal. “We need to make for the Apex Portal. I want to be in Caeldera by nightfall.”
Jac and his men nod at once.
“We’ll accompany you as far as the crossing, but we can’t go through with you.” Jac sighs. “Four more months on this frigid icicle before we earn a reprieve, I’m afraid.”
“It’ll fly.” Scythe—or is it Penn?—assures him. “You get cold up here, think of Beatrice and her lovely monobrow, awaiting you in warm tavern sheets.”
There is a riot of laughter from the rest of the men. It cuts off abruptly when the ground beneath our feet begins to shake and shift. The trembles are so great, I think the mountain must becoming down around us, an avalanche of stone and ice that will bury us alive.
I have endured earthquakes before, of course. They’ve grown more and more common in recent years; sharp, unpredictable shudders that make me think Anwyvn might be situated atop the back of a great slumbering beast who is shaking awake after a long hibernation. Usually they last no more than a moment or two, rattling cups in their saucers and jostling books off shelves.
This is nothing like that.
These tremors are more concentrated and come far faster than anything I have previously experienced. It is so intense, I fear the cavern floor will crack open directly beneath our feet, a deadly vein dropping us straight into the bowels of the earth. The three brown mounts by the far wall bolt before their riders can catch them.
Without thinking, I reach out a blind hand toward Scythe, grasping his upper arm to keep myself upright. Such is my fear, I do not realize that I’m putting pressure on his still-fresh wound. If my grip causes him pain, he does not seem to notice. He is already in motion, jerking the sword from the scabbard across his back with his opposite hand, shoving me closer to the fire and shifting his body to block mine.
I peer around the broad planes of his shoulders and see the rest of the men have taken up similar positions—backs to the fire, swords at the ready, a practiced formation for an incoming assault. Their knees are bent slightly to absorb the continuous shock waves. I mimic the stance, instantly steadier on my feet.
They are silent, but their expressions speak plainly. Whatever is coming—whatever is causing the cave floor to pitch and heave like water in a bucket—will not be a welcome addition to their company.
“What is it?” I dare whisper in the turbulent dimness, hearing the fear in my own voice and hating it. “Is it…ice giants?”
Scythe’s head twists—not enough to meet my eyes, but enough for me to see the severe lines of his profile beneath the heavy nose bridge. Frowning, he mutters, “Worse.”
Worse?